Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As Arthur laid the flowers down next to the many, many others, he thought about his last, and now final, conversation with Eames.

"I'll be gone for a while, darling. Don't wait around for me."

"I won't," Arthur scoffed.

His grave was surprisingly understated. Elegant.

Arthur always underestimated Eames.

Or maybe he used to. This was the last and final time Eames would give him something to underestimate. Eames was gone.

Well, more accurately, Arthur thought numbly, he's here. Buried under the dark earthy mud.

Decomposing. At rest.

It felt distinctly wrong. Especially for Eames.

Arthur would miss him.

---

The next time Arthur visited Eames' grave, the colorful bouquets were mostly gone. No more large masses of yellow sunflowers and bright lilies and red roses and ... everything else.

Instead there were only a few last well-wishers like himself. A simple group of daisies. One orange tulip. A pink carnation.

Arthur placed his cluster of white and purple chrysanthemums beside them.

Arthur had done this research on Eames long ago, but it was hard to forget. He had a favorite flower for his lovers. (Carnations.) A favorite flower for his birthday. (Crocuses.) And a favorite flower for funerals. (Chrysanthemums.)

It was like the light in the world had died with him.

Arthur laid the flowers down. He touched the cold stone edge of the tombstone.

"I do miss you," he told it, despite the fact that he didn't believe saying it mattered.

He said it because he needed to say it. Selfish to Eames even to the end.

Then he left. He would be back for his birthday, in a month.

---

Apparently, most people didn't know Eames' real birthday. The grave was empty.

Arthur laid down purple crocuses. Eames' favorite birthday flower. They looked small against the empty ground.

He traced the letters on the stone with his fingertips. Wishing he could shake the feeling that it was too late.

Because it was. Too late to make Eames laugh. Too late to watch him smile. Too late to keep him safe.

"Happy birthday, Eames," he whispered. "I still miss you."

---

Arthur tried to let it go. But he couldn't.

In one month, two weeks, and five days, he went back.

He brought one black carnation. He didn't know what it meant to anyone else, but for him, it meant love and grief. Eames, but buried and dead, gone and lost to him forever.

Forever.

"I loved Eames," he told the stone. Because he didn't have anyone else to tell who would understand.

One black carnation on a softly grown-over grave haunted his thoughts.

---

The time between his visits was growing longer, as life went on.

Three months. One week. Four days.

This time he planted white carnations. To keep Eames' tombstone company. It was ridiculously sentimental, but it helped.

He slept that night.

---

Six months. Zero weeks. One day.

Arthur stopped at the entrance of the cemetery and wept.

One black carnation.

---

It was Eames' birthday again. He couldn't miss it.

Arthur brought a bouquet of purple crocuses.

The grave was not empty.

The grave had an envelope.

The envelope had writing on it.

To Arthur.

Immediately, he felt wary. And furious at whoever was exploiting Eames' grave this way.

But soon, Arthur was sure he was alone in the graveyard, and he opened the envelope.

I told you not to wait for me, darling. I am sorry it took so long to write, but I have been a bit busy lately.

Thank you for the flowers. I hope to see you again.

Yours,

E.

Arthur's hands shook.

It couldn't be.

Eames was alive?

God damn him, Eames was alive, and he had missed it. How could he have missed it?

"I'll find you," Arthur whispered.

Chapter Text

Arthur opened his one large black suitcase at the hotel.

He pulled out the smaller bag, and the clothes. He changed out of his suit and into a pair of discreet-looking jeans and a grey hoodie. He knew where Eames was, and he wasn't going there dressed in a suit. It was just asking to be robbed.

Arthur brought the smaller bag with him.

The streets of Los Angeles were beautiful at night. They were beautiful in the day, too, but at night they took on an eerie, dream-like quality. An orange and pink sunset over the city skyline faded into purple and black, illuminated by the white and yellow of the streetlamps.

He took the Blue Line down South. The train was full. It was about 7 pm. People were going home.

No one was following him.

Not the person in a skirt holding a Pekenese dog in their black handbag. Not the one standing behind him with a newspaper and a runny nose, smelling like pine trees. Not the kid on their phone, smiling at a text message, wearing a t-shirt with a strange logo he didn't recognize.

They were all civilians. Practically projections, but just too alive and detailed and varied to be anything but real. They were safe enough.

Arthur's exit was 4 stops away. Approximately 23 minutes, at this pace. Then he would catch the 7:30 bus for 10 stops. Approximately 30 minutes. When he got there (Around 8:00). He would walk down 3 streets, turn left, go four more blocks, (approximately 6 minutes) and knock on the ugly white door of Eames' hideout.

He actually got there at 8:08 pm. Two minutes later than he expected.

He was about to knock on the ugly white door, hoping his intel was correct.

But the door opened.

Eames.

Fuck, he looked terrible.

"Arthur," he said, with a sad sort of smile. "Come in."

Arthur stepped into the small room. The ceilings were low. The walls were white. Eames was here.

Arthur took a brief moment to be overwhelmed.

Eames locked the door behind him. "I am glad to see you, darling."

His eyes had dark circles under them. He had a bruise on his right cheek. Probably from a fist. His gaze was wary.

"You could have told me," Arthur said, trying to sound calm.

His voice came out so cold. It was the opposite of how he felt.

"Well. If it helps at all, I wasn't having a very good time, with it," Eames said, sounding exhausted.

Maybe even guilty. It was strange, hearing Eames sound regretful.

"Eames," Arthur said, trying to sound softer now. "Are you hurt?"

Eames smiled wryly at him, joy touching his eyes for the first time. "Why, are you offering? I wouldn't have told you I was alive if I thought you were just going to kill me again, you know."

Arthur gave him a little smile. "I brought supplies."

He set his black bag down on the ugly red and green carpet.

Eames looked frozen. Unable to walk away from the front door.

"Thanks, Arthur, but I can handle myself."

(Eames said he was condescending. Eames didn't understand. He never did.)

"I can't," Arthur said, a quiet confession ripped from his chest, in a hurry to help Eames.

Suddenly, Eames was hugging him. Warm, strong arms around his shoulders.

Eames.

Arthur was shocked for a second, before wrapping him up, holding him close. A dead man breathing, held against his chest.

"I missed you," Eames confessed.

It was the most honest he had ever sounded.

"I missed you too, Eames," Arthur said, even though it would never mean enough. "I missed you too."

And if they cried then, standing on that ugly carpet, nobody else had to know.

Chapter Text

It took Arthur approximately 4 months, 5 days, $6 million dollars, and 1 elaborate scheme to help Eames. In the end, Eames left everything behind, except for Arthur, and in return, Arthur left everything behind except for Eames. Officially, they were both dead, now. Unofficially, they were both free to go wherever they wanted.

Arthur bought a small hotel in Costa Rica. He moved into a room on the top floor, overlooking city streets and distant mountains and little trees. 6 days after he went, Eames moved in with him. It was a beautiful view.

It only took 3 days to admit everything.

The windows were open, and the curtains were softly moving in the breeze. Eames was drinking coffee, and standing on Arthur's balcony in a fluffy white bathrobe. Arthur watched him closely, not just because it seemed likely that Eames was coming up with an interesting thing to say, but because he wanted to. After they died, Arthur had started doing more things he simply wanted to do. Like watching the wind play in Eames’ hair…

“I think I like it here,” Eames said, casually, glancing over his shoulder. “I might just stay.”

“I wish you would,” Arthur said, and neatly set aside his half-finished newspaper. He wanted his full attention for this conversation, wherever it led.

Eames gave him a surprised, wry look. “I mean it, you know.”

“So do I.” Arthur paused, only for a moment, before risking everything for Eames all over again. “I love you.”

Eames nodded, calmly, as if he had suspected as much. “Alright then. Love you too, darling.”

And that was that. They were in love, and it all made perfect sense to him.

Arthur joined Eames by the window, and wrapped an arm around his broad, warm shoulders. Eames softened at his touch, smiling and leaning into Athur's side, looking magnificently content.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, darling,” Eames said. “...Except, maybe, in that sandwich shop we found in New York. You remember that one? Best rye I’d ever had.”

“We can still visit,” Arthur said, with a small smirk. “We can go anywhere we want.”

Then he leaned in and gently kissed Eames' soft pink lips on that sunny balcony. It was an end to his old life, and the start of a newer, better one by Eames' side.

3,951 miles away, Arthur's simple, elegant headstone rested next to Eames’. Both had matching white carnations growing there. Already, no one came to visit their graves anymore. The dreamshare community had stopped looking for them. Their friends moved on. They were practically nothing more than legends, now.

Arthur liked it that way. He was officially dead, and yet, with Eames, he had never felt more alive.